Plastic And Rubber

He tightens the ropes around her wrist. She's naked on the bed. "Nervous?" he asks.

She stares up at the mirror on the ceiling, tries for a smile, but she can't ignore the clench in her gut. After all, he hasn't actually told her what he plans to do. He's just promised that she'll like it.

"Let's try a little visualization to help you relax," he says. He positions himself behind her on the bed, kneeling over her prone form, her head between his knees. He puts his hands on her arms, rubs up and down. She closes her eyes, trying to relax in his grip. "Picture two cylinders, like bamboo rods, but lighter and thinner. Firm and long." His voice is deep, slow, soothing despite the absurdity of the imagery.

She can't help but give a skeptical chuckle. "What?"

"Just try it," he urges, squeezing her forearms.

She does. Two cylinders, floating in empty space. Cool. Very sexy, sure.

"They're hollow and empty. Sitting next to each other at, let's say a forty-five degree angle. Like a V."

Her lips twitch, threatening to let loose another laugh.

And yet...

She finds her body relaxing nonetheless, and a tingle running down her legs, which shudder suddenly. She thinks maybe they're getting restless and tries to stretch them out.

But she can't. No matter how hard she tries, she can't move her legs.

She opens her eyes and tries to lean forward.

"Look up," he says. "You'll get a much better view that way."

"A better view of what?" She looks at her reflection in the mirror, and after a moment, realizes what seems off about it. "What's wrong with my legs?"

"Nothing's wrong with them," he says in that same soothing tone. "They're beautiful."

"They're...but they're..." They're smooth. Shiny. An almost unnatural pinkish-beige tone that doesn't quite match the rest of her skin. Plastic, she realizes.

"Perfect," he finishes for her. It's definitely not the word she would have used, but somehow, she can't argue. The word means without flaws, and what flaws are there now? She doesn't even have toenails anymore.

She blinks. Shakes her head. "No. They're not mine."

"Is that your only complaint?" he asks with a chuckle.

No, of course it's not. She has so many. She should have so many. This is strange. This is wrong. His face in the mirror is patient, waiting for her rebuttal.

But she can't even think of any, despite being certain they exist. It's like all the reasons for her legs to not be made of plastic existed inside her legs themselves, but they're now hollow and empty.

"There, you see?" he says, when her mouth shuts without further protests. He slides off the bed and moves around to the other end, runs his hand along her legs. "Empty."

Empty. Empty.

For some reason, that word feels profoundly important to her.

She can feel it. His hands, along her...skin? It has to be her skin; she can feel it. Not only can she feel it, but it electrifies her, creates a lightning bolt of pleasure that goes from her ankles all the way up to her pussy, which, if the mirror is any indication, is still made of human skin.

"Ohhh..." The sound that comes out of her is involuntary, quiet, a betrayal from her deepest core. He grins up at the mirror to look at her, all teeth, wide and predatory.

He lifts her legs, and she can do nothing to stop him. Then he pries them apart, as wide as they can go until they're almost one long line, stretching the skin of her pussy, increasing the pressure, and she is unable to keep herself from moaning again, her head pulling back.

He strikes them together, like he's playing an instrument.

"Ohhh...oh fuck, oh fuck." The dull

clap

, more like a bump, ripples through her, momentarily erasing all thought from her head to make way for ecstasy and the energy to whimper and moan endlessly. Her wrists writhe, testing the limits of the bindings keeping her tied to the bed. She's not sure if she's trying to escape, though she knows she should try. But fuck, it feels...oh God.

"I...I need to go," she manages to get out, her voice shaking. "I need to--"

"Go where?" he asks, smirking. "With these legs?" He knocks on one of them, and she moans again. Her clit is on fire.

"No." No, obviously, there'd be no walking on plastic legs. But her legs aren't plastic, can't be. This is some kind of hypnosis, or he's drugged her and she's hallucinating, or--

"Relax," he says. "You're struggling too much. Going to hurt yourself. Think of those cylinders again."

She feels a tingle in her arms, something too familiar.

No. No.

She stretches her arms for as long as she can, but it's futile. A moment later, they go slack.

He comes back around to the head of the bed and unties her wrists. Her arms drop with no resistance.

She doesn't have to look at them in the mirror to know they're made of the same plastic material as her legs. There's articulation in the elbows and fingers, but it's not for her benefit.

He moves them to her sides at first. She can make some feeble movements with her torso, but without legs and arms that are under her control, she's no better than helpless. "I always think it's interesting, that we put arms and legs on dolls," he says. "Especially sex dolls."

"I'm not--" she starts feebly, but he goes on as if he hasn't heard her.

"It's not really necessary, but I suppose it's a way to make the simulation more believable. But if you wanted an accurate simulation, why not just have sex with a real woman? Well, I'm not in a position to argue." He takes her left arm and places the hand on her stomach. "I guess, if anything, it provides good balance."

The feeling of plastic against flesh creates a strange cognitive dissonance in her. And then the word itself,

flesh

, creates another sense of dissonance. She feels disgusted by it, by the feel of the perfect plastic hand against her human torso.

No. No, she is human. There's nothing wrong with being...

With being...

In the time she's been ruminating in the feeling of her left arm on her stomach, he's taken her right arm, curled the fingers, and inserted them into her pussy, pressing and exploring until she whimpers, confirming he's found her clit.

"Does that feel good?" he asks.

She wants to say no, but it would be a lie, and the word, "Yes" comes out as an unbidden whisper. It does feel good. Why does she like it? Why does she like that she can't move her fingers? Pleasure swirls in her like a storm gathering above warm waters. He's barely moving her fingers at all, but she's so sensitive that it doesn't matter. He knocks on her arm like he did on her legs, confirming that they're hollow and sending a ripple of arousal to her fingers and then to her clit, like an electric current. "Empty." She speaks the word, again without her mind's permission.

He hums approvingly. "Empty is so nice, isn't it? Think of something that's filled to the brim, so cluttered that you can barely see anything in it." His voice is low now, less soothing and more concerned, and she whines, her torso and head squirming in stress from the image. "When something's empty, there are so many possibilities, and no responsibilities. Nothing to put away or sort through. Nothing to worry about. Some people are afraid of emptiness, but there is so much beauty in it." He presses her plastic fingers into her clit again, and she gasps. "So, so much beauty. Don't you think?"

Think

. She just moans, relaxing at the image of all the things in a suffocatingly cluttered space simply disappearing into nothingness.

He grins, like she's passed a test.

"Let's picture something a little different," he says. "A trunk made of rubber, like car tires but a tad more supple, and of course, smooth. Very smooth, with just enough give when squeezed."

"No..." But she can already feel it. His words are speaking into reality these changes. The flesh under her plastic palm hardens and tightens. No more fuzz on her belly. No more little squishy rolls as her waist and stomach slim down to a beach-ready body. In the past few minutes, she'd become absolutely revolted by her fuzz and rolls, but she understands that these were things that made her unique, that made her her. All of that is going away, like she doesn't exist for herself anymore.

It's a coincidence, she hopes, that that thought sends another burst of pleasure through her. "Uhhhnnn." Under the fingers of her right hand, she feels moisture, growing and seeping. Her pussy is still human. For now.

"Do these look like doll breasts to you?" he asks, squeezing one of them.

She can't deny that they don't. "No," she says, her arousal making it hard to speak. "Those are...not doll breasts...but..."

Her chest tingles, and in the mirror she sees them becoming firmer. What were previously two adequate but squishy lumps, hanging slightly to the sides as she lay down, have quickly moved, standing at attention and expanding in size, the only thing she can see when she turns her limited gaze towards her body. They end in two distinct and pink plastic points, and he squeezes one of them between his fingers. The pain combines with almost unbearable pleasure. She opens her mouth as if to cry out, but her voice just flutters.

"What would you call breasts like this?" he asks. "I don't think you could call them breasts at all, actually. You'd need something cruder. I think you would call them tits, wouldn't you?"

His words penetrate her mind and in an instant, the first word for them is erased. "No, they were...they are my br...my br...my..."

"Your what?" he asks. He squeezes one.

"My tits." She feels a sense of relief, like some troubling source of stress has melted away.

Big doll tits for a slutty fuckdoll.

She's disturbed by the words that pass through her head, their simplicity, their crassness, but she lets out a gasp of pleasure, like her body is rewarding her for thinking those words, for forgetting the old word that no longer matters.

He smiles. Twirls a lock of her hair in his fingers. "Hair like this is prone to frizzing, isn't it? It would need so much work to maintain. And who has time for that? Doll hair needs to be like the rest of the doll. Easy."

Easy.

She likes that word too. She likes it being used to describe her. Her scalp itches as her clit pulsates like it has its own heartbeat. In the mirror she watches as her hair, formerly brown and shoulder length, grows longer, increases in volume, and turns a platinum blonde. It feels rough against her cheek, uncomfortable. She winces, brought out of her stupor for a moment.

"Please," she whispers. "This isn't what I..."

"You don't think it suits you?" he asks. "I think it suits a doll perfectly. Perfect doll hair...but the face, it's not a doll's face, is it?" He frowns mockingly. "What does a doll's face look like? Her eyes are glassy, the irises bright, lashes long. Rouge on her cheeks, of course, but not too much. We want her to look classy, not like a clown." He chuckles at his own joke, and she watches helplessly as her face changes to match his words. The skin itself is becoming not unlike her torso, rubber and taut and free of any variations in color, but she knows it will be soft enough to his touch. Exactly as soft as he prefers. Her synthetic hair is no longer uncomfortable against her scalp and face.

Her eyes go from a dull hazel to a bright green, and try as she might, she can no longer move them or blink. She can only stare straight ahead, at a pair of eyes that are perfectly crafted but have no sense of life to them anymore. He taps one of the eyeballs with his nail, producing a soft

tink

. Glass. She understands, suddenly, a fundamental truth. That eyes aren't for dolls to look out of. Eyes exist so people know that the doll is empty.

Empty.

She thinks of every part of her that is empty now, and more and more it feels good to be so empty, a feeling that contradicts the part of her that knows something terrible is happening. Her pussy is still wet, and her lips twitch with another moan. Why hasn't she cum yet?

"Ah, but we can't forget the lips. The lips are the most important part. The whole mouth, in fact."

"No...no please..." She knows once this part is over, she'll never have another chance to plead her case.

"You're distressed." He frowns, petting her forehead. "I think it would help if you thought of soft pillows. Big, soft, pink fluffy pillows. Sinking into them, letting them envelop you. So soft, so wonderful, that the idea of anything hard like teeth being near them is utterly unthinkable. What does a doll need with teeth, anyway? And I suppose she can have a tongue, but like her arms and legs, it'd be just for show, wouldn't it? Something to be played with, like the rest of her."

Her lips swell as if stung by bees, turn a soft and alluring pink, the same color as her new nipples. They part just slightly and she can no longer compel them to shut, but she can't open them further either. Behind them she feels the space in her mouth freed up as her teeth and gums disappear. Her tongue turns to rubber and settles at the bottom of her mouth, useless and limp to her.

He brushes her new lips with his fingers, then sticks them inside. He pushes the back of her head down towards her chin with his other hand, and her thick lips involuntarily form a seal around his digits. "Empty mouth," he says.

The inside of her mouth is almost as sensitive as her cunt as he swirls his fingers around. Her mouth is so empty. She doesn't need teeth. She doesn't need to talk. She just needs big beautiful lips for sucking and an empty mouth for anything to fit inside.

She moans again, still begging her dollified body silently to let her orgasm, and the look he gives her now is almost one of pity. "Empty throat too, I'm afraid," he says. "Wouldn't want anything to get in the way of all the cum and saliva that will be going down there."

This invocation snaps her, or whatever's left of her, back to reality.

No,

she thinks.

I'm not a doll. He's done this to me, I have to fight. I have to...

She tries to utter a scream, cry out, but it's no use. Where her body used to produce sound, there is now only a simple, thick tube, waiting to be filled.

"Right now, you're probably experiencing the last gasps of resistance." He withdraws his fingers from her mouth, then rubs them on her cheek. They're completely dry. "And I'm afraid my persuasion can only get you so far. But don't worry. Your body is conditioned to handle the rest."

He moves her hand out of her pussy, and though her fingers are still damp with lingering juices, she sees in the mirror that at some point, that part of her has changed too. It's now only a bare slit, an empty hole with no muscles, just like the rest of her, open for whoever wants to use her. She tries to twitch it, and the uselessness of the attempt creates a rumble of arousal in her rubber torso. She understands now what he meant, when he said her body was conditioned to handle the rest. It's as if the very fact that it's changed means her mind is dollifying too, learning to yearn and crave to be treated like the doll she now is, learning to love that she has lost all control over herself.

She doesn't notice him unzipping and shedding his jeans. He teases her slit with the tip of his cock, sending a wave of stimulation through her. "It does feel good for you, doesn't it?" he asks. White sparks dot her vision in confirmation. "Your body is now made for pleasure. Mine first, of course, but then yours too. I want you to enjoy it, you know." He eases into her, and her pussy is titillated despite her mind's protestations. The rubber inside is thinner, slicker, giving the illusion of wetness. "If I just wanted a Real Doll, I would have just bought a Real Doll, wouldn't I? You have no idea how incredible it feels to know that you can feel me inside you, that you've submitted to me and that you enjoy being used."

But I haven't submitted, I don't enjoy...oh, oh God...yes...

Being fucked as a fuck doll feels so right, so good. Her plastic legs bounce uselessly on the bed as he thrusts in and out of her, and she finds she particularly enjoys that sensation as they hit the comforter again and again, flopping about with no dignity, hollow and light in time with his balls bouncing against her rubber ass.

"But there is one last step, just one little detail to make you perfect and empty forever. You like those words, don't you?" He grins as he continues to fuck her. "Empty and perfect. Your inner vocabulary is about to become very limited, but those words will be among the few that remain."

She thinks of that empty space again, how safe she felt to imagine herself there. She didn't need to do anything in there. And she realizes she can feel that safe, that empty and mindless, forever.

Some part of her still resists, still thinks there must be a way to escape, but the pleasure is short circuiting it quickly.

"I told you," he grunts, "that you would like it."

He cums, shooting his thick load into her dollified pussy, coating her rubber insides that are made just for this.

And finally, she orgasms, and she understands that was what she was waiting for, the last step to erase that pesky part of her that didn't want to be an empty and happy possession. Nothing about her thoughts can really be classified as thoughts anymore. Thoughts have substance, intelligence. Thoughts analyze and critique the world around them. What goes through her head are little more than images, or strings of fleeting words, getting simpler and simpler.

Doll. Pleasure. Doll for pleasure. Empty. Filled. Filled fuckdoll. Beautiful perfect fuckdoll with doll hair and doll eyes and doll lips and doll tits and doll holes and,

And on the words go, serene and swaying, passing through her with no control from her, just like everything else that's been done to her. If she could smile, she would, but she

likes

that she can't smile, likes that her lips are permanently pouty and slutty the way her owner wants them to be.

He kisses her, forcing her lips apart with his tongue and twisting it around hers, giving the illusion that they're both capable of producing saliva. He has enough for both of them. "Good girl," he whispers. "Good doll."

She sighs in her mind, blissfully sinking into submission.

Doll good fuckdoll empty good fuckdoll.

He pulls out of her and gently props her up into a sitting position. She can no longer see the mirror on the ceiling, but there is another one in front of her. She has no choice but to stare back at herself, an empty shell that looks unsettlingly human. But of course, anyone can tell that she's just a doll.

He places one hand on top of her giant tits, and the other goes right back into her pussy, causing tingles of pleasure throughout her rubber torso. The knowledge that he has posed her brings her more joy than the feeling of the pose itself. It feels good because it's good for a doll to be posed and used and fucked because a doll only exists to be posed and used and fucked.

"I know it's rude to not clean up after oneself," he says. "And I do intend to take very, very good care of you. But since tonight is special, I want you to enjoy the feeling of my cum in you for a little while longer." He gropes her tits, and it feels so right to be incapable of physical reaction, to remain completely immobile while he touches and squeezes her and does whatever he wants to her. "I'll see you in a bit. Welcome to my collection."

He dresses and leaves the room, with the door slightly ajar.

She stares into her reflection, in this pose he chose for her, this pose that teases her synthetic body and her sensitive doll synapses until he decides to come back and use her again, a constant, glorious reminder that she is nothing more than a plaything now. That her limited self-awareness remains only as an extension of his pleasure. She has absolutely no memories of anything from before she lay on this bed, which is now synonymous with her entire universe. She's aware there was a before, but that thought is just a way to remind her that she is his now. A possession with plastic fingers in her rubber body. It's a reminder of how good it is that she is no longer a person. That it is so nice, so sexy, to be something that can only sit and be used.